Are You Happy Now, Molly Hooper?
by MadAuntieKeith
Summary: Three days after John's wedding, and Sherlock's mind palace is in total disarray with thoughts of friends and a nagging feeling of insecurity. Maybe all he needs is Molly Hooper to put his mind at ease? Sherlolly with hints of platonic Johnlock, rated T because I'm paranoid! Thinking of continuing this with chapters based on HLV, although it won't be strictly canonical!


**Hello, everyone!  
**

**I know I promised my followers and fellow Leico-lovers a New Year's fic ages ago, but honestly the goings been slow because my mind has been consumed by the force of nature that is Sherlock! So I am deeply, _deeply _sorry for the delay, but I literally can't keep my mind focused on anything but the feels and the extreme cuteness of Sherlolly! (Yes, I ship Sherlolly. I mean, I kind of ship Johnlock too, but nowhere near as intensely. Not much of a reason, I just don't really see at as much as other people do. Like I think they're soulmates, but not really in a sort of romantic/sexual way? I don't know, it's just one of those weird things where I just don't see the ship as much as other people (I mean I know they flirt a bit but frankly I think if you don't get a little gay with your best friends then you're not close enough!). If you ship Johnlock though I respect your opinion and completely understand- there's plenty of stuff to support the ship! I just find myself hooked to the Sherlolly ship like a barnacle!)**

**Anyway, so here's a Sherlolly fic! It's probably too long for it's own good, and the writing's probably a bit clunky. This was weird for me to write because pretty much all of my fics on here have been about two awkward American teenage demigods, so writing about the sociopath detective and his pathologist is quite a departure from the norm!**

**So, here you go! Hope you like it- I decided to write this as an alternative follow-up to the Sign of Three because I just know that His Last Vow is going to break our hearts! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters, and the song lyrics to "December 1963 (Oh What a Night)" and "Is You Is or Is You Ain't My Baby?" belong to the Four Seasons and Louis Jordan!**

**(Warning: contains TEH and TSoT spoilers!)**

* * *

**Are You Happy Now, Molly Hooper?  
**

Three days, eight hours and seventeen minutes since the wedding, and Sherlock Holmes hadn't moved a muscle.

That was inactive even by his standards.

He could count every passing second by the insistent ticking of the clock, reverberating in the eerie calm of 221B Baker Street. The only accompanying sound he heard was the quiet shuffling of Mrs Hudson scraping several of his experiments off the good plates and into the bin. He thought about snapping at her, but he was a little too preoccupied trying to sort rooms in his mind palace that he'd hoped not to have to reorganise, along with some that never should have existed.

As much as he disliked having to use his mind palace for personal experiences and acquaintances, he was running out of ways to resolve his internal struggle. He'd decided that trying to rationalize and arrange his feelings like facts seemed the simplest solution- although however simple it seemed in theory, it was proving much more difficult in practise. He was doing his best, but try as he might the contents of the rooms seemed to bleed into each other incessantly. He closed his eyes, stepping into the warm glow of the first room.

A small room, built for two but with room for one more. John and Mary were at the centre, standing side by side, always at the forefront of the younger Holmes brother's mind. Sherlock crossed the room, treading carefully over the collected evidence of their time together- the endless blog posts, the photos of too many failed relationships (he cringed inwardly as he remembered past exchanges with John's numerous girlfriends with embarrassment. Clearly his scathing remarks and obliviousness had not been helpful), the frankly excessive array of jumpers scattered on the chairs and across the floor.

He froze halfway across as he came face to face with Mary. She smiled, delicate lines crinkling at her eyes as she reached up and straightened his jacket, her knuckles brushing his chest as she smoothed his lapels. Sherlock felt his mouth twitching up into a smile in return- that had been happening more and more frequently of late. He saw John shifting behind her, and looked up with a grin on his face.

John smiled back, wrapping his arms around Mary from behind, his hands sliding down to rest on the swollen curve of her belly. Sherlock could have sworn that hadn't been there before. He watched as Mary's hands dropped from his chest and came to rest on top of John's, their intertwined fingers cradling the now unmistakable bulge beneath the pale blue cotton of her blouse.

Sherlock met their contented smiles with one of his own, but brushed passed them, his eyes turning misty as they flickered around the snug but spacious room. His earlier deduction was correct- there was room for one more. Just not for him.

He thought he glimpsed Mycroft strolling along the opposite wall, swinging his umbrella nonchalantly as his voice from almost seven months previously rang out coldly across the warm room.

"He's got on with his life."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, watching as the phantom vision of his brother faded from sight. Trust Mycroft to show up when he wasn't invited.

Sherlock turned away from the disappearing outline of his sibling, trying to vanquish his unwanted words from his mind palace. As much as he hated to give his callous brother credit for anything, he had to admit that in this case Mycroft had a point.

John didn't need him anymore. Of course they would still be friends- John might visit occasionally, Mary and the baby in tow, but nothing would ever be quite the same. Their relationship had to have a different dynamic from now on, Sherlock could hardly drag him out on dangerous cases if he had a family to get back to. Sherlock liked Mary, and of course he would do his level best to like any child of John's, but things would never be the same.

He felt the room he stood in temporarily morph, the empty space filling with bright lights and people as his mind recreated the wedding reception. He saw Mary's wedding dress flickering across the polished floorboards as John pulled her away across the floor, casting another beam in Sherlock's direction.

Sherlock smiled after them, waiting until they were lost in the crowd to allow his face to fall.

Sometimes he detested the way his mind could recall all the tiniest things. He remembered too well, and now he had to live it again.

The very moment he realised John and Mary were moving on with their lives.

He cast his eyes around the room, glancing between couples and friends and relatives dancing together, laughing and smiling, oblivious to the consulting detective standing alone at the centre. He found himself scanning the crowd hopefully, perhaps in a desperate bid to find Janine or another familiar face who might like to dance. He caught sight of her and took a step closer, only to feel his smile fade as he noticed that she already had a partner. The very partner he'd suggested to her earlier during his frantic speech- clearly he'd done his job a little too well.

He crept between the dancers, making his way back to the stage and carefully sliding his sheet music into a pristine envelope. He left it perched on the music stand- with a bit of luck someone would find it by the end of the night and hand it over to Dr and Mrs Watson. Sherlock was tempted to find them and give it to them himself, but for some reason he found the idea of coming face to face with them again tonight somewhat daunting. Besides, he didn't want to bother them on their wedding night. They deserved at least one night to be happy and carefree, just this once.

He made his way back through the crowd, the music pounding in his eardrums. Across the room he caught a glimpse of yellow, and turned his head to look as he walked past.

Molly.

She was dancing, the ridiculous bow in her hair bouncing up and down with every movement. He wasn't sure how, but for whatever reason she made the ludicrous accessory look good. Attractive, even. But the brightness of the yellow paled in comparison to her smile, those thin lips he'd made fun of so many times previously lighting the room as she beamed.

He couldn't help the knot in his stomach when she turned that smile to Tom.

Tom was far from perfect. Though Sherlock refrained from voicing his opinions out loud out of respect for Molly, anyone could see that Tom wasn't smart enough for her. He struggled to imagine the type of conversations they might have with no one but each other for company. How much interest did he show in her work? If he did ask her about it, how frequently did she have to simplify or even completely omit the aspects he wouldn't be able to grasp? Was she really happy?

His mind buzzed with questions as he made his way to the door, trying and failing to block out the residual memory of the music, feeling each lyric strike a chord deep inside him.

"_Oh, what a night!_

_Why'd it take so long to see the light?_

_Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right,_

_What a lady, what a night…"_

He vaguely wondered if the Four Seasons had ever considered the possibility that their upbeat dance number might only serve to exacerbate someone's internal crisis of conscience. Probably not. As he reached the exit, he felt the memory shift slightly. Instead of carrying straight on out the way he had that night, he turned to look back.

Molly was still dancing, her back to him, the lights shining against her yellow dress, the ridiculous bow still swaying.

He caught sight of John and Mary, dancing close and laughing, gradually disappearing into the crowd. He saw Tom, looking at Molly with unmistakable adoration in his eyes. It was no less than she deserved.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper," Sherlock whispered, the slightest smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

As soon as the words left his mouth, she turned around. Their eyes met across the crowded room. Her bopping slowed slightly and she frowned, her dark brown eyes flickering from him to the door, concern evident in her expression. Sherlock met her gaze, his brow furrowing. He didn't remember this part.

After a moment, his sad smile returned. "Of course you see me, Molly Hooper. It's always you."

She smiled at him, but the sadness in her eyes betrayed her. She only whispered, but Sherlock heard it across the room as if she were standing right beside him.

"I don't count."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could speak he felt the room slip away, the music fading to a broken hum as the memory collapsed. The lights merged with the faces and voices of the people, sliding together in an incomprehensible mess as he felt the familiar pull back to reality. He heard a voice calling his name.

The last thing he saw was that preposterous yellow bow.

* * *

**Part One: I Don't Count  
**

* * *

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective blinked several times, clearing his vision as he turned his gaze upwards to the stern face of Mrs Hudson.

He masked his shock immediately, being careful to keep his voice sounding as bored as possible. "Can I help you, Mrs Hudson?"

She tut-tutted, placing another cup of tea by his side and removing the untouched mug from the previous night.

"You can start by helping yourself for once," she said, giving him a meaningful look. He raised an eyebrow quizzically, waiting for her to elaborate.

She sighed, picking up his phone from the table and dropping it into his lap. "People have been trying to call you for three days, Sherlock. Everyone's worried- it's about time you called back and put their minds at ease. You can't just hide away from the rest of the world, it's not healthy!"

Sherlock pointedly ignored the phone in his lap, picking up his violin and plucking the strings thoughtfully. "Nonsense. I'm not hiding- merely taking some time to myself. My mind palace is in terrible disarray, what better way to utilise the free time now John and Mary are away on Sex Holiday than to organise it?"

Mrs Hudson crossed her arms severely. "Honeymoon, Sherlock Holmes, mind your language! If you want to fester away in here that's fine by me, but at least tell people you're all right."

Sherlock glared at her, laying down his violin. "Why should I? I've never had to inform anyone of my extended periods of absence before, why should they pick now to worry about me?"

She picked up the tray with the cold tea, casting him a concerned look as she left with one parting sentence.

"Because you left the wedding early…"

Sherlock's eyes followed her as she made her exit, opening his mouth to speak but finding nothing to say. He turned his eyes down to the phone, his finger flicking across the surface to bring the screen to life. Seventeen texts, five missed calls, three voicemails.

He thumbed through the texts, barely glancing at each one individually. Fourteen of them were from John. The first one, sent at 9:46 on the night of the wedding simply asked where he was, concern evident in his wording. The rest of them followed a similar pattern, each one gaining a few more swearwords and exclamation marks than was strictly necessary. The text from Mary contained a similar question, only she'd elected to end her text with a smiley face in an attempt to set a friendlier tone. It made a change from the string of profanities he was receiving from John. The final two messages were from Lestrade, confirming that the Mayfly man was safely behind bars and awaiting trial. He was also asking if Sherlock would come down to the station to answer some questions, but even from the way the text was written you could tell it was a forlorn hope.

Both of the missed calls were from John, as were two of the voicemails. In the first message he slurred his words slightly. Sherlock checked the time of the call and realised it must have been made after the reception- clearly John had had a few too many by this point. The call ended with a few mumbled swearwords before Mary apparently snatched the phone from his hand, muttered a quick apology and asked Sherlock to call them back before hanging up. In the second message John sounded more coherent, and Sherlock deduced from the background noises of announcements, small wheels on vinyl flooring and muffled conversations in multiple languages that they were at the airport the following morning, preparing for their flight to the Bahamas. The call ended abruptly when their gate was announced, and John told Sherlock to take care of himself, promising to drop in when they got back.

Sherlock sighed, selecting the next message and expecting another rant from John. He wanted to reply and put his friends' minds at ease, but he wasn't quite sure what he'd say. Besides, the last thing they'd want is for him to call them on their romantic getaway.

He hit play on the last message, bracing himself for another worried ramble from John.

"Sherlock?"

He caught his breath, surprised to hear Molly's gentle voice from the speaker. He checked the time of the message, realising with a jolt that it had been left today at seven thirty, barely an hour previously. He stayed perfectly quiet, wondering what she could possibly be calling to say.

"Sherlock, are you okay? I know you're probably going to say you are, but, well, I just wanted to check…"

He could hear the air crackling in the speakers as she took a deep breath.

"I saw you leaving early."

His eyes widened slightly. So she _had _turned to look- he had started to think that was just his imagination.

"Look, I don't expect you to tell me what's wrong. I don't expect you to tell me anything, to be honest but… Well, I'm here. If you need me. I know, I know, why would you need me? But I just thought I'd offer because, well, what with John being away I thought you might need someone to talk to."

Sherlock tried very hard to ignore the strange feeling in his chest. He bit down on his lip and listened closely as she wrapped up the message.

"Well, that's all I wanted to say… Just call me if you need to, all right? I mean, you can come and see me if you prefer- I'm in the morgue basically all day today, I don't expect you to leave your fortress of solitude or anything but… just let me know you're okay? Everyone's worried. Well, talk to you soon. Bye."

The line hung open a few seconds before she hung up and the sound went dead. Sherlock listened blankly to the heavy silence for a few more seconds, trying unsuccessfully to marshal his thoughts into some kind of coherent form while simultaneously trying to quash the curious fluttering sensation in his stomach. His logical mind started analysing her words, her tone of voice, every individual inflection.

Unbeknownst to his logical mind, his physical body was already out the door.

* * *

Molly stood over the gurney, filling in another in a sea of forms as she inspected the body and its physical injuries. A simple enough case- male, mid-fifties, hit by a speeding car while crossing the road. Obviously the poor man hadn't taken enough care to check the road for traffic.

Despite the apparent simplicity of the situation, Molly found herself searching for non-existent injuries, maybe the smallest scratch or bruise that might suggest that there was more to the man's death than a simple hit and run. The type of miniscule detail that anyone could miss.

Sherlock would know.

Her hand hesitated over the form, her eyes glazed slightly as her thoughts turned once again to the consulting detective. She used to think about him in moments of trouble- think about the way his coat swept out behind him, the way his steely blue eyes shone when there was a mystery to be solved, the way he ruffled his hair or straightened his scarf.

But recently all those images had been replaced by one memory she couldn't shake off.

Sherlock, his face downcast as he slipped out into the night, surrounded by people but with an unmistakable air of isolation. Who else but Sherlock could stand in a crowded room and still be completely alone?

"You won't find anything."

She whipped round, her lab coat swishing behind her as she came face to face with Sherlock Holmes.

He took a few steps closer, glancing down at the body. "Simple hit and run, no suspicious behaviour. No need to do anything resembling detective work, I think you'll find the traffic camera situated on the upper eastern wall of the adjacent multi-storey will have more than adequate coverage of the incident to locate the driver."

Molly nodded, scribbling down a few more notes at the bottom of the form before pulling the sheet back up to cover the body. She glanced up at the consulting detective's face, biting her lip.

"So… not been out much recently?" she said quietly, organising the completed stack of paperwork.

He frowned, cocking his head to the side slightly. "How did you know?"

Her eyes widened. He really hadn't looked at himself in a mirror for a while. "Well, the three-day stubble and the fact that you're still wearing your tux from the wedding gave it away, to be honest."

Sherlock looked down at his outfit, bewildered. He hadn't even noticed- he'd barely had time to kick off his shoes and loosen his tie before he'd lost himself in the rambling corridors of his mind palace.

Molly noticed his expression and sighed. When would this ridiculous man learn to take care of himself? She walked over to the table at the other end of the room and scooped up the rest of the files she'd been completing. "Come on. I need to fill all these in- we can go to the lab for a bit."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod and swept out of the room, Molly close on his heels.

* * *

"So why did you leave?"

Molly looked up from her paperwork to where Sherlock was milling about at the other side of the lab, eyeing up the various bottles of chemicals as if wondering what kind of experiments to conduct next. He glanced back at her, blinking several times. "Hm?" he mumbled.

She raised her eyebrow. He really was distracted today. "I asked you why you left. The wedding, I mean."

"How's Tom?" he said quickly, sidestepping the question with less than his usual finesse.

Molly shook her head slightly, turning back to the papers and letting the matter drop. If Sherlock didn't want to discuss it then no line of questioning would convince him. She weighed up the pros and cons of telling the truth or a little white lie just to simplify matters, but in the end she put down her pen and crossed her arms, leaning back on her chair.

"Could be better."

He leaned against the counter, raising his eyebrow. "Not good?"

"I wouldn't say that," she said, racking her brains for the right way to put it. "He's lovely. I mean, he's sweet and I care about him but… Well, he's…"

She trailed off. Sherlock watched her carefully.

"He's what?"

She sighed, meeting his eyes. "Well, I suppose you could say he's… boring."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "Boring?"

Molly nodded. She felt awful for saying it, but it was the truth. Tom loved her, he cared about her, and he was safe and warm and wonderful in so many ways. Exactly the type of person she'd always thought she wanted.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed as he considered something. "I don't understand- I was under the impression that a steady relationship was what you desired."

She shook her head, lowering her eyes. "Maybe what I want isn't quite as simple as I'd hoped…"

He nodded, but she could tell he was still confused. She didn't blame him. She was contradicting herself, and she should have known he wouldn't be able to make much sense of the new information. Still, it felt good to get her concerns off her chest for once- she couldn't walk down the aisle knowing that she would never have another chance to voice her worries.

She shrugged, smiling slightly. "I suppose domestic life isn't all it's cracked up to be."

His lips quirked up into a smirk. "Nothing ever is."

She smirked back, picking up her pen and returning to her work. Sherlock continued to pace around, his long fingers brushing across the counter as he made a circuit around the room. He was so quiet it would have been easy enough to get lost in the heaps of paperwork and forget he was even there.

Or at least it would have been, had he not moments later dropped onto a stool across from her, steepling his hands beneath his chin as his elbows came to rest on the table, making Molly jump at his sudden proximity. His blue-green eyes met hers firmly.

"I couldn't find a partner," he said bluntly.

Molly blinked, shaking her head slightly. "What?"

"At the wedding. I couldn't find anyone to dance with, and so I left," he clarified with the slightest shrug of his shoulders.

She stared at him in disbelief. "Is that all? You couldn't find a dance partner so you left the whole reception? I didn't even know you _liked_ dancing!"

He gave her a little half smile. "On the contrary, I love it. Not much call for it in the detecting business, unfortunately."

She barely suppressed her giggle. She cleared her throat, her face falling slightly as another thought crossed her mind. "Well, what about that bridesmaid? The one you were talking to?"

"Janine?" he said, confused.

She nodded. "Yeah, her," she saw his puzzled expression and laughed. "You're not the only one who notices things, you know."

His eyes brightened. "Evidently not. And no, Janine was otherwise engaged at the time."

Molly put down her pen again and leaned across the table slightly, meeting his eyes. Funny, she'd never felt confident enough to do that before the fall. How times change.

"So that was the only reason? You didn't have anyone to dance with, and that's the only reason you left?"

He nodded, but he was hiding something. She could see it in his eyes. She considered nagging him about it, but she let it go.

He'd tell her when he was ready.

Molly clicked her tongue and stood up, crossing over to the sink in the corner of the room. A decrepit radio sat on the shelf above it. It had been there for years, so rusty and out-of-date it could only pick up one channel- a fairly unpopular jazz and blues station- from time to time. If the lab was quiet, she and any other pathologists stuck on the graveyard shift would turn it on to alleviate the silence. She felt Sherlock watching her as she reached up to flick the switch, turning the dial until the volume went up as loud as it could go. The end of an obscure jazz number crackled through the ancient speakers. Molly smiled and turned round to meet Sherlock's bewildered gaze.

She shrugged. "What? You said you liked dancing, didn't you?"

He stood up, sliding his hands into his pockets and crossing over to her, his head tilted slightly at an inquisitive angle. "Are you suggesting we dance?"

She smiled. "Yes."

"In a laboratory?"

"We'll be careful not to knock stuff over!"

He raised his eyebrow, looking bemused. "Why would you want to dance with me?"

She gave him a withering look, holding out her hand as the song ended. "That might be the silliest thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

He frowned, but he took her hand all the same. "I'm not sure I follow you."

She felt the blood rush to her cheeks as his hand took her own, and she felt giddy as the next song began to play and she rested her other hand on his shoulder. She couldn't stop the grin that spread across her face from ear to ear as she felt his left hand settle hesitantly on her waist.

"Then maybe you should lead," she said in what she hoped was a smooth and seductive tone but most likely sounded like a schoolgirl-ish giggle.

If she did sound absurd, he didn't say so. Instead he tightened his grip on her hand and tapped his foot slightly as the opening bars played, acquainting himself with the rhythm before leading her in a dance.

"Louis Jordan, 1944," he said absently, looking just over Molly's shoulder as if afraid to look her in the eye. "I do have a somewhat limited knowledge of jazz music, although it's never interested me quite as much as the classic composers- Mozart, Chopin, Bach…"

Molly chewed her lip to bite back a laugh. Even now he found it impossible to shut off the endless stream of trivia in his mind. She swayed with him, attempting to suppress her giddy euphoria long enough to say something.

"Sorry, by the way," she said.

He looked down at her with a frown. "For what?"

She shrugged. "For not dancing with you last time we had the chance."

He smiled. "Hardly your fault, Molly Hooper- you were a little preoccupied last time I saw you."

"I wouldn't exactly describe dancing with Tom as 'preoccupied'" she said with a grin. "His dance moves are about as good as his deductions."

He chuckled, the sound so wonderful and unexpected it sent her heart racing.

"Meat dagger," he sniggered.

Molly wasn't sure if it was the outright ridiculousness of Tom's comment or just the way it rolled uncharacteristically from Sherlock's lips like stilted innuendo, but before she knew it she was laughing as well.

Sherlock's face broke into a wide grin, and Molly squeaked as he released her waist and spun her round, pulling her back against his body before she could collide with the counter. She beamed dizzily as her hand came back into contact with his shoulder.

"Nice moves," she said breathlessly.

He replaced his hand on her waist and winked. "I told you I loved dancing."

"You should do it more often!"

He shrugged. "Well like I said, not much call for it in my line of work."

"You could always do it for fun," she suggested. "You know, fun? That thing people have while you're off catching murderers?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't understand- I thought that _was_ fun."

She giggled. "Well, each to their own," she said lightly.

Sherlock smiled, leading her around for one last spin as the song drew ever closer to its finish.

"I hope you'll be happy, Molly Hooper," he said softly, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "Whatever you do."

She felt her eyes water a little as she gripped his hand tighter.

"I'll do my best," she whispered.

Their eyes met and their smiles matched as they let the music carry them along, right to the last bar.

"_Is you is or is you ain't my baby?_

_Maybe baby's found somebody new?_

_Or is my baby still my baby true?"_

* * *

"I don't count."

For the second time that day, Sherlock found himself face to face with mind palace Molly, her cheerful yellow dress shimmering brightly, contrasting almost poetically with the sadness in her eyes.

Sherlock took a step forward, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the floor.

"You've always counted, Molly Hooper," he said quietly.

He raised his head to meet her gaze, smiling slightly as he caught site of the ridiculous bow in her hair.

"You know I'm not one for sentiment, Molly," he said. A rather unpromising start, really. "Friendship and love have always confused me and I imagine always will. But as much as I sometimes wish I could continue my cold, indifferent life in the manner to which I have become accustomed…"

He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Well, put it this way- for the past three days I have been alone in my flat, living in almost complete silence, as was the case nearly every day before I met you or John or Gary-"

"Greg," Molly interjected.

"Or Greg," Sherlock corrected himself, giving her a stern no-more-interruptions look before continuing. "But despite the fact that I often complain about the noise and distraction of other people, I spent my first three days of peace and quiet doing nothing but wondering where John and Mary were, what you and Tom were doing, and generally considering whether or not any of you had a place for me in your lives anymore.

"The point I'm trying to make is that while I may be an insensitive, emotionally stunted arsehole… somehow, somewhere, you got under my skin."

Mind palace Molly bit her lip and smiled, toying absentmindedly with the glittering engagement ring on her finger. Sherlock silently wished he could imagine that blasted thing away, but he wasn't one to omit important details.

"I know that a lot of people simply assume that I'm incapable of sentiment- bonds of friendship or trust that most people crave in their day to day existence, but the truth is that's not nor has it ever been the case. I know that I often come across as cold and indifferent, but as hard as I may try to convince people otherwise, I'm only human. I can feel things just like anyone else. The difference is that I've never wanted or even known how to show other people how much they mean to me…"

He took a deep breath and reached forward, taking Molly's hand and looking back down at the floor.

"I've treated you horribly in the past, Molly," he said without looking up, feeling his cheeks begin to burn. "I've used and belittled you, I've taken advantage of your feelings for me on multiple occasions. You deserve better. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I may never be the man you deserve. Chances are I will never truly be able to show you how important you are. A part of me is happy that you've got on with your life. In the end, I think the only thing I can do to show you how much you matter to me is to let you go. In the end, I just want you to be happy…"

He looked up, meeting her doe-brown eyes. "Are you happy now, Molly Hooper?"

Mind palace Molly smiled warmly, reaching up to place her hands behind his neck.

"Maybe you should stop talking to yourself and ask me."

She pulled his head down and kissed him gently, and when she pulled away he could have sworn he saw tears in her eyes.

* * *

Two weeks later, Sherlock found himself back in the morgue at St. Bart's.

To his confusion, Molly didn't seem to be around. He checked the lab, still finding no trace of her. He could have sworn she was supposed to be in work today- perhaps she'd called in sick. He checked the canteen, trying to suppress his disappointment when she wasn't there. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd come today of all days. He just wanted to see her.

There was one place he hadn't checked.

He hesitated outside the door to the locker room. He remembered the one other time he'd been here, nearly seven months ago. The first time he'd seen Molly in two long years. He remembered how happy he'd been to hear her voice again.

He could hear her sighing behind the wall. He took a deep breath and gently pushed open the door.

Molly was standing next to her locker, pulling on her lab coat. Her hair was dishevelled, like she'd tied it in a rush, and her clothes were a little more mismatched than usual. She turned to face him, and he noticed she wasn't wearing any make-up. She didn't look unattractive, or even particularly sad- she just looked like a woman who was fed up of keeping up appearances.

He raised a questioning eyebrow, and she shrugged. She slid her left arm into the lab coat, and as her hand emerged from the sleeve Sherlock noticed a certain diamond-studded band was missing from her finger. His eyes travelled down to the floor around her locker, and the hastily packed bags covering it.

He stepped forward and aided her in untangling the other side of her coat, helping her arm through the sleeve. She muttered a thank you and straightened the collar, slamming her locker shut.

"Work to do?" Sherlock asked, keeping his voice impassive.

She nodded, picking up her bags and standing on tiptoes to stack them atop the lockers.

Sherlock shook his head. "Breakfast first."

She turned to him, frowning. "What?"

"Well, judging from the fact that you did your hair in a rush and you haven't put on any of your usual make-up or co-ordinated your outfit suggests that you left in a hurry this morning, presumably after breaking off your engagement with Tom and packing your bags in a hurry. That you had so much to do in such a limited time frame combined with the fact that you've been known to forget to eat if you're stressed or in a hurry suggests that you probably haven't eaten yet this morning. That and the fact that your stomach just made an incredibly conspicuous growling noise."

She glowered at him. "You know, seeing as I've just broken up with my fiancé, been kicked out of the house and am temporarily homeless, you might think about being nice to me for once."

"I am being nice," he said, sliding an arm around her shoulder and marching her out into the corridor and towards the canteen. "Can't have you fainting from hunger in the middle of an autopsy now, can we?"

"Sherlock, I'm going to be late for-"

"Doesn't matter," he cut her off, steering her down the hall. "I'm sure the corpses can wait half an hour."

She looked up at him, suspicious. "Sherlock Holmes, are you telling me to shirk my responsibilities for my own health? How very out of character."

He chuckled, his hand tightening on her shoulder.

It was hardly a grand romantic gesture, but it was a start.

"Molly," he said, thinking back to the bags in the locker room.

"Yes?" she asked, curious.

He smiled.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

* * *

**Well, I hope it wasn't too awful!**

**Don't worry, fellow Valdangelo shipmates, the fic will be up soon- hopefully after I'm done crying over HLV!**

**And if any Sherlolly shippers actually liked the way this was written (unlikely) feel free to send me some prompts, I might write more of these two! :D**

**Until next time! **

**EDIT: In answer to several questions, yes I will be continuing this! Obviously I published this before HLV, but having seen that episode there are so many things I could write about so I've decided to extend this one-shot into a multi-chapter! I should warn you though that it won't be keeping strictly in canon with the episode (for a start Molly's already left Tom and she's living with Sherlock in this, so obviously things shave shifted somewhat! The timescales have also skewed a little, but I'll try to keep to the canon where it counts!) I should also warn you that later chapters may become angsty- let's face it, there aren't many ways to write about drug addiction, gunshot wounds and strangely adorable psychopaths without writing angst! It'll all come right in the end though :) I got a bit carried away with planning and I'm estimating this to come out at about eight chapters (assuming I don't turn super lazy and fail to complete it, but I shall try and resist the temptation to give up!) So, if you can still be bothered to read my scribbles I'll see you then! :D**


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